"Come on, kid," the announcer was calling to him from the center of the ring.
John dropped his bathrobe from his shoulders and went forward.
"On my right—the Gallant kid," shouted the announcer, pausing for the laugh that came up from the crowd.
"The what?" a voice asked.
"The Gallant kid, he calls himself," shouted back the announcer. "On my left—Battling Rodriguez. One hundred and thirty-five pounds."
John went back to his corner. He rested his gloved hands on the ropes and scraped the soles of his shoes into a box of rosin shoved beneath his feet by the twisted nose youth, who had a towel thrown over his shoulder and a pail of water near him.
Blake pulled himself up beside him.
"Remember, John, keep cool and keep jabbing that left in his face," he said.
John looked out at the crowd. A thought of his mother flashed into his head and he seemed to see her face in the blue haze of smoke.